


Flindrikin

by travellinghopefully



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Feels, First Time, Fluff, PWP, Slow Build, Snow, marbles, scots thesaurus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-23 12:17:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4876501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/travellinghopefully/pseuds/travellinghopefully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clara and 12 go for a walk in the snow, there is a storm.</p>
<p>Despite the potential cliche minefield, romance ensues.</p>
<p>Really, looking at my fic output, Clara and 12 really deserve some quality time together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flindrikin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [QueenElizabeth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenElizabeth/gifts).



> Inspired by @lizabuffw aka @QueenElizabeth whose wondrous story On The Bonnie, Bonnie Banks (http://archiveofourown.org/works/3920701) came to an end this week
> 
> She wrote some lovely words of encouragement on another fic of mine, but then on tumblr posted about this being the time of year for warm drinks, scarves and snuggly jumpers
> 
> That combined with listening to Radio 4 and Scots words for snow (http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-scotland-34323967) was the inspiration
> 
> Flindrikin - is a slight snow shower, but I just think its the most wonderful word, so it became the title
> 
> You should have just enough time to read this before the next episode - and no mattter what happens in season 9 whouffaldi lives!
> 
> Oh, and, trying to do dialogue without he said/she said – hope it makes sense.... Its either that or put C or D at the start of each sentence....
> 
> And....as usual, if you love it, let me know, if you hate it, let me know - if you really love it - please share!

“Deaffy, runtit, puggle, meve, moshie, skeeler.”

“Is the translation circuit broken?”

“What on earth are you talking about Clara?” The Doctor raised his eyebrows incredulously.

“Well it seems to be working now, but before, those words, they made no sense.”

“Of course they made sense, they were perfectly clear.So, do you fancy a game?”

“Really, I have no idea what you are talking about! A game of what?”

The Doctor fished in one of his pockets, lifted out a paper bag and proffered them to Clara.

Clara took one and was about to pop it in her mouth.

“STOP! Really, what are you doing, I can’t think what’s the matter with you today. That’s a marble, you don’t eat marbles, do you pudding brains know nothing? Marbles is a game! Until now, I thought it was a fairly common earth game...” The Doctor sighed and tutted.

Clara dropped the marble back in the bag. She opened and closed her mouth, pausing to frame a reply that might make some sense.

“That’s your big plan for today? Playing marbles?” Good grief, the Doctor actually looked quite hurt that she had questioned his plans.

“What’s wrong with marbles?”

“Well it’s not exactly our usual kind of outing, no monsters, no running, no jeopardy, no planets.”

The Doctor opened his eyes wide and blinked at her. Clara thought about the large cuddly fluffy owl, currently sitting on her bed – the one she hoped the Doctor didn’t notice she had. Even if he had noticed it wasn’t as if he would think anything of it, probably, not at all, really, he could be endearingly dense.

“Well you suggested we should do things that were a little more domestic, more relaxing, less drama. It was what you said.” He huffed.

Clara leaned forward and kissed the Doctor on the nose.

He was getting quite good at her being affectionate. He almost didn’t recoil as if he’d been bitten by a poisonous snake, almost.

“That’s very sweet, but I am not sure playing marbles really qualifies.” Stop thinking he’s lost his marbles.

“So those words?”

“Perfectly good Scottish words. Really, for a literature teacher, sometimes, really, I feel quite concerned for your students. What exactly do you teach them?”

“I’m not Scottish.”

“That hardly seems like a valid reason.”

“Neither are you.” 

Clara counted backwards from 100 in Latin....she would not hit him, she would not hit him, she would not hit him, she would not hit him.

She forced herself to relax, she unclenched her fists, noting that she had actually pressed her fingernails hard into the palms of her hands. That had hurt, maybe she did need to work on her desire to be controlling. She wasn’t going to say that out loud. Narrowing her eyes a little, she stared at the Doctor, just how telepathic was he? Did it really require touch? Sometimes he looked at her as if he could see right inside.

“So, what do you suggest?” The Doctor looked at her, calmly, hopefully, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his trousers, displaying the vermillion lining of his ridiculous magician’s coat.

OK, maybe not ridiculous, maybe rather dashing.

“Well?”

“Could we just go somewhere beautiful for a walk? Nowhere dangerous, nowhere too hot, just a nice pleasant walk, together.”

“Nice?”

She did hit him this time, just lightly on the arm, smiling, knowing it confused him.

He “owwwwed” dramatically, and theatrically rubbed his arm where she had barely tapped him. Really, the way he reacted every time she touched him, you’d think she’d electrocuted him. The him that was him before, he had been nothing like this. Clara carefully focused on remembering this was still him, knowing how much she had hurt him by not seeing it.

“I know the perfect place. Wrap up warm, and try to wear sensible footwear, none of those stilt things.” He made a ridiculous gesture with his fingers, mimicking teetering tippy toes.

Clara lifted her hand – the Doctor flinched. Clara nodded and walked off to rummage through the TARDIS’ wardrobes. She distantly heard him shouting that there would be snow.

She returned wrapped in a thick, warm, quilted coat, hat, scarf, sensible boots (no heel) and mittens – with a spare pair in her pocket, just in case. The Doctor didn’t appear to have changed, oh, maybe he had added a hoodie under his jacket.

“Don’t be ridiculous, if I have to dress warmly, so do you. At least get a hat and scarf and gloves.”

Muttering about superior Time Lord physiology, he stomped off to comply. When he considered himself safely out of her hearing, he said, “Yes, boss!” He ducked, just in case her skill at throwing things had suddenly, recently, improved.

Returning to the console room, his magnificent curls squashed under a quite preposterous woolly hat, a truly monstrous scarf wrapped round his neck, and gloves that clashed with everything. Clara managed not to laugh, for at least 20 seconds. She then laughed, she laughed until she cried, she laughed until her cheeks hurt.   
She wrapped her arms round the Doctor’s neck, well what she could reach under the scarf and kissed him, softly, just once. He was just too adorable sometimes.

The Doctor fell backwards, landing in a heap of tangled limbs and woollens. 

Clara extended a hand and helped him back up, still laughing.

“You’re doing that thing. Crying and laughing.”

“No, no, its good, it was just too funny.” She gestured helplessly, hoping the Doctor wouldn’t require further explanation as to what was funny and why. She didn’t want him all affronted and bristly and cross.

“Do we need a picnic?” That should distract him.

“I have things, in my pockets.” He patted them. “Bigger on the inside.” He nodded.

Clara really hoped he was over his blue cheese, sardine and jam sandwiches.

“Is there something I can eat?”

“Of course, and anyway cheese and fish are good for you.” 

The line between the Doctor being adorable and insufferable, was quite thin and frequently stretched.

The Doctor walked over to the controls and entered co-ordinates for where ever it was that he was taking them.

Clara found the sounds the TARDIS made, endlessly comforting, even if she was still positive she didn’t like her. It was a one in twelve chance that she found her own room and the kitchen was never ever ever in the same place twice, and don’t get her started on the bathrooms.

“We’re here!”

Lost in her reverie, the Doctor had already crossed to the door and flung it open, letting in blinding light, reflected from a world that appeared entirely white.

“I did mention the snow?”

“I believe you said there might be snow.”

“Well see, there is snow, I was right.” He smiled. 

Sometimes he reminded her so much of one of her youngest school boys – always the gleeful delight in something new, the thrill of exploration, never jaded, always boundlessly enthusiastic. Yes, a small school boy, or a Labrador puppy, both seemed very apt.

“Come on then.”

He strode out into the snow, and sank immediately to his knees. Clara tried exceptionally hard not to start laughing again. Taking slightly more cautious steps the Doctor walked over to what appeared to be a rocky outcrop. 

He gestured to her again. “Come on!”

Clara very carefully walked over to where the Doctor was standing – if he had sunk to his knees, she would find herself in the snow up to her waist. Clambering onto the rock she found it very slippery and linked her arm with the Doctor’s for stability. Yes, stability, shut up brain.

Gorgeous, huge fluffy flakes of snow began to drift slowly through the sky.

“Feuchter.”  
Clara blinked, what had he said? “What?”

“That’s the kind of snow. Feuchter.”

“Oh right...”

“Marvellous language Scottish. Feefle – to swirl.” 

He twirled her on the spot and the both began to slip and slide. He may have laughed, Clara definitely smiled.

“Snaw-pouther – fine driving snow.”

“Not a wild animal then?”

“Really, Clara, don’t be silly.”

She found herself higher up on the rocks than him and used that to her advantage. She kissed him again. He flailed, sliding inexorably down the rocks, pulling Clara after him.

They landed in a large drift of snow.

The Doctor carried on regardless, his need to talk, to elucidate, to endlessly narrate, unstoppable.

“Carmudgelt – made soft by lightning.” The Doctor pointed to a lone tree, blasted and splintered by lightning.

“That’s not entirely encouraging. I did tell you I wanted us to go somewhere safe.” Clara allowed that excuse to hold herself against his arm a little more tightly.

“Don’t be preposterous Clara, its quite safe, really, light snow at worst.” He nodded emphatically, continuing to stride purposefully through the landscape.

“I also said a gentle stroll, not a route march. Can we not just enjoy the surroundings rather than attempting to travel through them as rapidly as possible?”

She slipped again, and as she had thought, fell through the outer crust of snow up to her waist. At least her grip on the Doctor’s arm was secure and she compelled him to grind to halt whilst she extricated herself from the snow.

He attempted to help her by batting ineffectually at the snow which now covered her extremities.

“Come on, there’s something I’d like to show you.”

Could he not give her a few seconds breather? Impossible man.

He didn’t quite give a flourish and say, “ta da!” when they arrived where ever it was that they had arrived. Clara was a little breathless and not immediately impressed. As far as she was concerned, all they could still see was snow.

“Look!” He pointed.

Eventually Clara’s eyes adjusted and she could see the snow white foxes playing against the infinite white background. Really, only their eyes and noses gave away where they were. But if Clara really concentrated she could begin to notice subtle shading in their fur, a hint of grey, a faint suggestion of cream. They were utterly captivating.

Clara had recaptured the Doctor’s arm and was anchoring herself against him, slightly fearful of plunging down into the snow again. Now that they had stopped marching (he really did have unreasonably long legs) she found she was really quite cold. Through her now inadequate layers and his seemingly insubstantial ones, she attempted to unobtrusively snuggle against him – hoping that might somehow make her feel a little warmer. The foxes were entrancing, but, she was starting to shiver.

“Are you cold?” 

At least when stating the obvious he had the decency to look a little concerned.

Lifting things from his pockets, he pulled out chalk, jelly babies, a yo-yo (well those were the things she could identify) and finally a large thermos flask, unscrewed the top and poured a thick brown liquid into the cup. He handed it to her and she sniffed it cautiously. Before now she had taken a large mouthful of marmite gravy, not unpleasant, but definitely unexpected.

He beamed and explained that it had a secret ingredient. Clara took a cautious sip. Deliciously sweet and hot, it tasted a lot like hot chocolate.

“Can you tell?”

“What?”

“What the secret ingredient is?”

“Well it tastes like chocolate.”

“Well done!” Sometimes he was so patronising.

Clara may have scowled, and he may have looked crestfallen, so she hastily ensured him that it was delectable and it was certainly helping her feel warmer.   
With that, lightning struck a scant few feet from where they were standing. Close enough for Clara to jump, throwing the remaining contents of her cup into the air. 

The foxes gave shrill cries of alarm and scattered.

Clara clutched at the Doctor’s arm in earnest. 

“I do not want to be carmudgelt! Its much too far to the TARDIS, where can we shelter?”

“I saw a cave, we passed it a little way before we arrived. We can shelter there, it will be perfectly safe.”

Clara was never sure whether his apparent unconcern was contrived, and whether she found it soothing or wildly irritating.

She floundered through the snow after him, attempting to keep to the path that he was forging for them. 

The sound of the storm was deafening, and the gentle snow, whatever words the Doctor had used was now harsh and wet and cold and unforgiving.

Stumbling into the cave, regardless of all the layers Clara had put on she found she was soaked and utterly frozen.

The cave was dry, and mercifully sheltered them against the worst of the storm – but it was still unbearably cold.

The Doctor had the means to light a fire, but there was nothing to burn. Clara was beginning to go from shivering to stillness, not an encouraging sign.

Taking everything from his pockets, he produced a substantial array of food, a lantern, two astonishingly thin, but amazingly warm blankets and a variety of objects that Clara could never hope to identify.

“Come on, you need to get out of those wet things before you freeze.”

Clara’s hands were too numb from cold to be of any practical use. The Doctor’s nimble fingers made quick work of removing all her sodden garments. He hastily wrapped her in both the blankets before he could really think that she was standing there in nothing but her underwear.

“What about you?”

The Doctor shrugged, he really was just as cold as Clara, and just as wet, an infinitely miserable (not that he would admit to any such thing), but he had decided he could suffer for the duration of the storm and maintain himself until they returned to the TARDIS.

His thoughts were interrupted as Clara wrapped her arms round him, sliding her hands under his jacket, and under the remaining layers of his clothing. He emitted a muffled noise that could only properly be described as a squeak.

“CLARA!” He couldn’t quite manage to think of anything to add to that. His circulation and respiration both seemed to have simultaneously shut down and at the same time his heart rates had exponentially increased. Quite unusual.

Her hands were freezing. Her hands were against the skin of his back. Clara had her arms wrapped around him, touching him. She was tucked under his chin, the blankets securely wrapped around her and she was pressed against him.

He couldn’t discern that any blood was reaching his brain. He would have scanned himself, but he appeared to have lost the voluntary use of his hands. He was aware they were lightly resting on Clara’s waist.

If he put his mind to it, he was a phenomenal hugger, all his hard edges and sharp corners melted away and he became soft and warm and welcoming. That was when Clara’s hands were touching fabric, not when they were touching skin.

He could feel her thoughts, fluttering like moths against his mind. He clamped down very, very hard and refused to listen.

Clara pulled away from the Doctor, she might be warming her hands, but the rest of her was getting soaked again.

“Doctor, this is silly, you are just as cold and soaked as me. Come on, take off those wet things – we can share the blankets, it’ll be warmer and far more sensible.”

He was quite prepared to argue, until she used the word sensible. There was nothing inappropriate in sensible. Nothing. He ignored the section of his brain that was telling him to agree to anything that would have her arms wrapped round him again, her pressed against him.

“Shuttity up.” Oops, he’d said that out loud. Really, his brain wasn’t being remotely helpful, or co-operative.

“Sorry, not you, thinking, sorry.” Don’t try to explain. No. Just acquiesce. Just remove the wet cold clothes. 

Don’t think. 

Not thinking would work. No part of his brain was trying to decide whether the pattern on her bra was small hearts or stars. He was not categorising the individual components of her fragrance, and it didn’t grind to a halt after thinking “roses.”

He was standing there in his socks, his underwear and a t-shirt, Clara was wrapping them both in the warm soft blankets. He was almost sure he hadn’t reached the stage of mumbling incoherently.

Clara told him it was ridiculous for them to remain standing, they should at the very least sit down, perhaps share some hot chocolate to warm themselves, maybe eat something?

He was glad that Clara could be practical, he had ceased functioning. If she asked, he would blame it on the cold. No, not the cold. If he said that, she would snuggle closer. Did he? Didn’t he want her pressed against him? He dragged the driest class from the most tedious lecturer from the Time Lord Academy to the front of his brain and replayed it – if that couldn’t anaesthetise him to Clara’s charms – nothing could.

He ate without speaking, he drank without speaking. At some point he knew Clara was going to ask the inevitable, ask him if he was all right. Keep thinking about the mathematics of crystallography, don’t think about the soft warmth of her skin, don’t think about where her hands were resting against him. Don’t count her heart beats, don’t listen to her breathing. Absolutely, do not, look at her thoughts.

Oh for goodness sake, he might as well have told himself not to think about Daleks. Actually, Daleks, they were a helpful distraction, nothing remotely warm or enticing about them, in no lifetime past or to come would ever desire to kiss one.

Kissing. NO! Daleks, nasty, emotionless killing machines – not how soft Clara’s lips would be, not whether she would taste as sweet as the chocolate. Not what sounds she might make if he was to suck on that one spot just behind her ear, what her breasts would feel like under his hands, her nipples growing hard under his fingers.  
He stood up. That might have been ill considered. He had pulled the blankets from himself and from Clara. This was not the moment to be standing in his underwear – he thanked whatever gods existed that he had his back to Clara and hastily sat back down, wrapping the blankets back round both of them. He muttered something about cramp. A small lie, a lie that small wouldn’t hurt, no, not at all.

Clara’s arms were wrapped round his middle, she was leaning against his back, her head against his shoulder, her breath warm against his skin. Every bit of his skin was covered in goose bumps.

Lifting a hand from the blankets he scanned the storm, it showed even less signs of abating than when he had first checked. He consoled himself with the thought that the storm had appeared from nowhere and therefore should be able to vanish equally inexplicably. He didn’t like not being able to explain things, not being able to reason them out, he was quite prepared on this occasion as a one off to allow the storm to pass without further thought or comment.

Clara’s hands were sliding lower. Perhaps she was falling asleep, if she was asleep, he didn’t have to explain anything. If she was awake, they were about to have a conversation that he wasn’t convinced he had the words for in any language. 

Clara’s lips were pressed against his shoulder. That was obviously a mistake. Clara’s mouth was continuing to trace the outline of his shoulder. He felt every touch of her lips, the tiniest flick of her tongue as she appeared to taste him.

Crystallography was increasingly distant and remote and even the Daleks in his head were taking on a warm, fuzzy, positively cuddly glow. 

He wasn’t allowing himself to lean back against Clara and he didn’t spring upright and race out into the snow as he realised Clara’s hands were very definitely resting in his lap. Clara’s thankfully now warm hand began to move against him, so carefully and slowly tracing his outline through the taut, constricting fabric.

He had to speak, he had to say something. They had flourished by not speaking, even after Christmas, half of what they should or could say remained unspoken. But, there were some moments, when he really couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

“Clara.” He said her name, softly, hesitatingly, as if the sound of it was unfamiliar, as if he couldn’t recognise the shape of the syllables against his tongue.  
Before he could say anything else, she told him to shush, to be quiet, to relax.

And she kept kissing him, her hand kept touching him. Nothing she did was enough, he wanted all of this, he wanted so much more. 

He turned round within the circle of her embrace. Her hands resting against his back now, her head against his chest, her nose gently brushing against the sparse hair that covered him there. It felt like regenerating. It was so long since someone had touched him like this. Too long ago and never in this body. He was anxious and overwhelmed and oh, he didn’t want this to stop.

Clara looked up at him, raised a hand to his face and cautiously traced her fingers over his jaw, against his cheek, resting so softly, no more than the touch of a feather against his temples. All of him wanted to rush into that touch, feel her mind in his, against his. Not to be alone.

He couldn’t, he shouldn’t – she was his impossible girl. But some things, some boundaries he shouldn’t trespass.

And then she kissed him fully. And reason stopped.

She tasted of chocolate and mint and roses and Clara. Her tongue was so hot, it touched his and caressed his and sparks exploded in his brain. And still he held back somehow. If it started, it would end – and he couldn’t bear endings.

Without thinking, one of his hands wound in Clara’s hair, pulling her closer to him. He deepened the kiss, celebrating not needing to breathe. Clara pushed gently against him, pulling back and then collapsing against him, breathless, resting her forehead against his.

And he was lost. He couldn’t close out the thoughts, he couldn’t stop his rushing to meet hers. There was confusion, there was embarrassment, their was awkwardness – and then, all that was gone. There was the pure, blazing, inextinguishable light of love.

Clara loved him. He wasn’t just her best friend, he was everything. He gasped feeling her love and she opened her eyes and gazed at him in wonder as she felt his love pour forth.

“Idiot.” Was the one coherent word either of them formed.

The Doctor lifted his Clara, his Impossible Girl to sit astride his lap and he concentrated on kissing her everywhere he had imagined. Listening carefully to the sounds that she made, determined to please her, determined to give her ecstasy and bliss.

She could hear him, and she chided him, stop over thinking. She kissed him with just as much enthusiasm and just as much determination, and finally he allowed himself to look at what she was showing him with her mind. How much she loved him, all of him, it wasn’t about younger him, it wasn’t about any other of his incarnations, it was the him that was here now, the him in her arms. She loved him, all of him, the grumpiness, the eyebrows, the fierce eyes that crinkled and twinkled and softened with humour. She wasn’t repelled by his thinness, his oldness. She didn’t see him as brittle, a hard, splintered, broken thing – she didn’t look at him as if he was carmudgelt.

She loved him. She was very thorough in showing him just how much. She wriggled back a little, off his lap and out of his immediate embrace. He protested. She smiled impishly at him. Swaying slightly, she reached her hands behind her and unfastened her bra. Small stars – that was the answer (really, really, shut up brain.) She giggled, the sound was wonderful, but the effect of her giggling made her move in the most delightful ways. The Doctor leaned forward to capture her breast with his mouth, feel her nipple harden under his tongue, listen to the sighs and captivating moans she made as he increased his attentions. Memory was a wonderful thing, it helped him, guided him, but this, creating something new, something just between them was better.

Clara pushed back against him again. He definitely articulated his disappointment. A thought, something like the word patience spread out from her mind, through her touch. And she smiled, a true smile, a loving smile, one that didn’t confuse him, one that wasn’t contradicted by her eyes.

Clara brought her hands to his lap again, freeing him finally from the uncomfortable fabric. He could of course have done that himself, at any moment, but his thoughts had been elsewhere. He felt Clara’s thoughts, rocket ships, glancing down he realised she meant the pattern on the fabric. She felt his thoughts, she laughed. He needed to hear her laugh, he needed to hear her joy, feel her joy surround him, driving away all the lingering shadows, sweeping out all the dark corners of his mind.

And then she lowered her mouth over him. He almost levitated as her hot, wet lips enveloped him, as her tongue stroked against him.

He brushed his hands over her shoulders and she immediately understood, too much, too overwhelming, too good, not this, not now. Them, together and then, everything he had ever thought, every thing he had ever imagined spilled from his brain and he saw the answering pictures and images from her. Things he couldn’t believe she had thought, even though they had been his thoughts too. And they both laughed and both formed the word idiot again.

She was so patient, so loving, so good to him. And she showed him again, that this was what love was. She wasn’t good, she wasn’t patient, she just loved him. And there was no “just” about it, it was everything.

She paused for a moment, checking he was all right, checking if this was all right, did he really want this? And the last part of himself that he’d held back, afraid to show his naked need and longing and loneliness. The last barrier between them dropped.

She lowered herself over him, infinitely slowly. Pausing till he opened his eyes. Pausing till his hand rested against her face again. Pausing till he smiled and leaned forward and kissed her.

They moved together and it was bliss, and they both knew and they didn’t hide it from each other that being part of each other was best of all. Knowing each other, being loved by each other, not hiding themselves, no lies.

Then thoughts ceased to have meaning and they were laughing and gasping and breathless and ecstatic and complete and happy in their shared idiocy.

They lay there, wrapped in the blankets, wrapped in each others arms, realising the sounds of the storm had ended, and neither of them moved, nor did they want to.


End file.
